


We'll Always Have Paris

by lizilla



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizilla/pseuds/lizilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thinks he's obnoxious. He's not a knight in shining armor, he's a killer. He's a dealer of death, not a boy scout. </p><p>She thinks he's obnoxious until he slips his hands up her dress. </p><p>[Takes place after a certain scene in 2.12/Prisoner's Dilemma.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Always Have Paris

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 2.12/Prisoner's Dilemma. 
> 
> This is my first crack at actual fic writing on a scale that's not "hey guys look what I wrote" so go a little easy on me. Pretty much PWP. Wish I was sorry.

_I love my work._  

Kara’s not sure where it comes from when she grabs him close, dragging his face to hers, tasting quality French champagne on his lips. Maybe a kiss would stop a speech about how good of a man he is. Maybe it’s self-preservation—if you can’t beat him, love him. Or maybe she’s desperately lonely and he’s not too wise on the uptake about how to fix that.  

She thinks it’s the latter but the self-reflection is ignored when he removes his hand from her throat to curl around her shoulder, gripping lightly, like he doesn’t know where the line is. Hell, neither does she, anymore. But it feels good. It feels _so good_. Kara wraps her arms around John’s neck, bringing him closer, drowning him deeper, making sure he’s not going to back out of this because she can’t handle that right now. 

The friction of his body against hers, the heat of their breath in the night—it’s enough insurance that he won’t be swayed by misguided morals or duty. He opens his mouth, silently begging her to move this forward and she obliges, her tongue sliding over his lips. John’s hands grip at the blue fabric around her hips, pressing her so hard against the wall that she can feel the rough paper that decorates the room. One hand wanders, gliding over her upper thigh to the hem of her skirt where it rests for too long of a moment. Kara moves her leg upwards to grip him closer, winding her ankle around his legs, daring him to do anything but grind into her. A moan escapes his lips; she swears it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever heard this side of a semi-automatic roaring in the night. 

John moves to kiss her throat, dragging his tongue down her neck, eliciting groans that feel like they come from her core. She grips at his back, hands moving to push his lower torso closer, feeling his hardness against her. Kara realizes this is getting real, but the way his hands are moving towards her breasts and how his tongue feels on her collarbone stops her hesitation in its tracks. Before he can slip down one of her sleeves, she nods her head in the direction of the bedroom. John pulls her to him, half kissing, half carrying and leads the way. 

It’s another couple’s bed—another couple’s life, but this is Paris and they’ve done much worse things than fuck in other couples’ rooms. John walks them to the edge of the bed and tugs on her earlobe as she kicks off her heels. Kara’s hands reach up to pull off his jacket but he grabs her by the wrists, smirking in a way that tells her this isn’t the “boy scout” she mentioned earlier. He pulls her delicate wrist to his mouth, kissing her palm before trailing his lips to her manicured nails, staring her down as he takes the tips into his mouth and sucks lightly. She’s not quite sure why, but her knees go weak at the warmth and ideas of that mouth elsewhere. He releases her fingers, shrugging off his jacket and placing her hand on his chest. Kara resists the urge to tear his shirt open like an animal and takes it button by button, slowly, slowly enough to make him crave her the way she craves him. She stops to remove the shirt, dragging her nails across his chest and making him growl deeply. A smile creeps across her face when he leans in to kiss her roughly, her hands still pressed against his chest, feeling him breathe harder and harder. 

Her hands creep lower; as her fingers curl under the waistband of his pants, his entire body stiffens. John stops his kisses, stops his hands, stops his movements. He stops and stares her right in the eye. Kara’s not sure if he’s asking for permission or for a helping hand over this precipice of indiscretion, but she gives it. She grabs his belt and brings him to her, never breaking eye contact, slowly sliding a hand over his crotch to feel his length and to tell him _yes, this is right_. John’s blue eyes glow with an intensity that should scare her, but she’s handled worse. This one act has taken off his leash—it’s let the monster out with nowhere to go but to her. She’s more than willing to take the brunt of it. 

Kara gasps when he pulls her close, grabbing at the back of her dress. He makes an attempt to unzip it but fails, moving his hands to her shoulders and yanking the sleeves down, breaking the zipper in the process. She’d be upset if he didn’t immediately run his cool hand against her warm back, pushing her slightly toward him. She’d be even more upset if his mouth wasn’t on the flesh of her breast, lightly kissing until he reaches her nipple. He lightly sucks, his teeth adding light friction and Kara actually _doesn’t know what to do_ except grab at the back of his hair, urging him forward. She can feel him smile against her breast as he wraps his arms around her and picks her up just long enough for some disorientation to settle in. John moves a knee forward to the bed and brings them both down roughly with a bounce against the supple red sheets. 

He restarts his attention on her tit, licking, sucking, until he moves to the next breast, running his tongue over her cleavage as he shifts. Kara watches with lidded eyes as he treats her to this—more selflessness than she was expecting, to be honest—with delicate moves and precise attention, the way he treats a mission. John’s tongue slips again between her breasts and he moves downward, dragging his hands across her sides, making her arch into his touch. He hovers at her stomach while he pulls the rest of her dress off and up over her legs. John is momentarily taken aback when he notices her lack of underwear, giving her an eyebrow raise. She shrugs, smirks, and doesn’t mention they came off with her gun belt. Whatever he doesn’t know can’t make him less horny. 

She has to bite her hand when he finally slips a finger between her thighs, running it up and down her wet slit, his breath hitching as he realizes how much she’s wanted him. He leans down to kiss her neck and collarbone while his hand explores, his thumb finding her clit and giving light pressure in a rotating motion. Kara moans outwardly, arching into his hand, grabbing at the back of his neck. Does she like to be this vulnerable? Of course not, but sex, much like a gunfight, is about trust. And the way John’s hands move—his thumb circling her, his middle finger just touching her entrance but hesitating so she’ll _beg_ for it—she’d trust him with anything at this point. He slips a finger in her and keeps up a rhythm with her grinding, laying kisses on her jawbone, gripping at her back with his other hand. Kara’s moans grow louder and John’s breath becomes faster, watching her reactions. She’s close, but this isn’t the endgame. She doesn’t want his hands.

She wants _him._  

In mid-moan, she grabs him by the neck and drags his lips to hers, needing to feel him, needing to feel his skin on her breast. She tries her best to speak, but his fingers are moving faster. _I want you_ , she whispers, her breath hot on his ear. _I want… **you**_ , she groans, and he slows his hands and kisses her lighter. Kara has no time for this romanticism. Her hands move to his belt and she expertly removes it, one hand tugging at his fly and the other pulling his pants down. John kicks them off when she’s finished, removing his shoes as he does, but his mind is elsewhere as Kara grips him and rubs. He tries to keep down a moan, but it’s no use. Her hands are already at the waistband of his boxers and she’s pulling them off as if this were suddenly a timed event. He removes them the rest of the way but her hands are already on his cock, fingers pulling him towards her with light pressure. Kara’s hands move so swiftly that he barely notices what she does, but John’s seeing stars and he doesn’t want her to stop. She removes a hand to grip his shoulder and pulls him to her face, her mouth lightly running over his earlobe as she whispers… _now_. 

John hears a crinkling sound as Kara opens a condom. He stares for a few seconds before realizing it’s the one he had in his wallet-- _had_ , before Kara must’ve borrowed it mid-makeout. He shakes his head with a smile at her craftiness before her hands are back on him, moving the condom down his shaft and giving a nod. She raises one leg up and he grips it in the crook of his elbow, again moving to lick up her collarbone before settling his weight on the other arm. Kara directs his cock to her entrance and waits for him. 

When he enters her, Kara bites back a groan. It’s either been a while or she severely underestimated his size. But John waits. He kisses her neck and waits until her pain turns to fullness and her clenched hands move to grab his back. It’s a while, but they do. She grabs at his neck and moans to urge him forth. He pushes into her, slowly at first, enjoying the sensation but he eventually works into a rhythm—her hips bucking into his motions, her nails digging into his lower back, her moans matching his low, sensual sounds. The pleasure is deep as he’s immersed in her, but there’s a more encompassing feeling. Satisfaction. The satisfaction of solving this sexual tension, the satisfaction of eluding their handlers, the satisfaction of getting this over with—and maybe, the overriding satisfaction of finding something close to companionship in this line of work. 

Kara feels the pressure building, but not quite enough. She makes the executive decision to grab John around the shoulders and flip him over to the other side of the bed. His slightly stunned expression is short-lived as she mounts him, both hands on his chest, legs flush at his sides. John throws his head back when she grinds against him, clenching her muscles and moaning deeply. She leans down to place her lips to his, her black hair covering them both, the movement causing a _clang clang_ against the old walls. John’s hands reach up to cup her breasts and he’s breathless for a moment by her beauty before he remembers her lethality. As Kara flings her hair back, head up to the sky, moans growing into screams, he wonders if one is worth the other. It’s when she grips his hands on her breasts and grinds harder than ever, shouting out his name with her orgasm that he decides it just might be. 

\----------- 

Half an hour passes before she wakes. 

Kara rolls over to him, grasping the red sheets as she moves, wearily. “Did…did you _finish_?” she asks, genuinely not knowing. John laughs. “Yes. A good minute after you,” he starts, “thanks for remembering.” She stares at the ceiling and genuinely laughs—one of the only times John’s seen her do so. “I barely remembered my _name_ after that.” “Guess I did something right.” 

They lay that way, side by side, skin touching only at the arms, staring at the ceiling for what seems like days. It’ll be hours until the sun rises, morning when the agency calls and days until the questions start. But they’ll always have Paris. 


End file.
